The Last Testament of Alejandro Reyes

[Craig Ashley]

I'm the only survivor, and I wish I was dead. Anything would be better than the hell that is my life, than the memories that haunt my head. Memories I cannot escape. It's like dreaming while you're awake. The past runs through my mind again and again, and I can't stop it. God, I want it to stop! But I know God has forsaken me He has allowed all of us to become the playthings of devils, and now only I remain.

We mortals cling to life as if it were so precious, but I can tell you there are things worse than death. Things worse than Hell itself if that is what awaits me in the hereafter. Those things, they lurk inside of us, inside the human mind. They lurked on this wretched island, too. It's as if Hell itself opened up and took residence here and transformed itself into something beyond evil ... into pure horror. And the devils. Oh, the devils! They lurk as well, both within and without. I am at their mercy, but I fear such creatures know not the meaning of the word.

I know you're asking yourself, “How did I come to such a fate?” Let me tell you, there is quite a story to answer that question. Quite a tale indeed.

I'll tell you the tale. It helps to pass the time and to occupy my tormented mind. Time is such a relative thing. Spend time with a beautiful woman and an hour can seem like a minute. Spend it watching the grass grow and a minute can seem like an hour. Too much time is my problem ... too much time and too many memories.

I'll tell you the tale, but I don't know if I can finish it. I don't know if I want to finish it. Or if you'll want me to finish it. Chances are you'll ask me stop ... to spare you from the details of it all, but please let me tell you. Just to pass the time. I'll skip sections if you want, but then you won't get the full story. Someone should here this story. It needs to be told. It needs to be studied by great minds, to be told over campfires, perhaps even to be written for future generations. If I tell it, will you write it?

I'll tell you the tale, but you won't believe it. You'll say I made it up, or worse yet, you'll call me a madman, but its true, every word. I swear it upon my soul, may God still bless it in this forsaken place. I won't make up a thing. I don't have to because I can remember it all, every word that was said, every action, every sound, every smell. I remember because that is all I can do. It is my curse to remember ... to relive the horror.

I will tell you the tale, if that is what you want, but be careful what we want and what we get is often very different.

I will tell you the tale, just give me a moment to think in silence.

[Craig Ashley]

OOC: Well guess who's back?

As I said in the bAAR, I figured a smaller, less ambitious AAR would be a good way to get my AARlegs back under me. Hence you have this, which is an idea that was rolling around in my head some time ago.

The country, time, and place are pretty much irrelevent to the story. So if you're looking for some gaming tips, they won't be found here. Feel free to post your thoughts, criticisms, grips, complaints, rave reviews, or what have you here. Feedback is always appreciated.

[Valdemar]

well how about:

"Finish this one pls!"



V

[Cow Pie]

Sounds scary. I'm reading this.

[Farquharson]

Jeepers, do I want to subscribe to something like this? Oh no, now I've posted a reply! Now I'm automatically subscribed! Condemned to be called back forever to a tale of unspeakable horror - noooooooooooooooo!

[Craig Ashley]

Vald: This one is much shorter than any of my other attempted works. If I am able to maintain a decent posting pace, it should be completed in 2 - 4 weeks. That is of course barring a bout with writer's block.

Cow Pie: Thanks for reading.

Farquharson: MUHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!! Now I have you! Soon you shall become one of my dark minions. Resistance is futile.

[Craig Ashley]

We set sail from Spain. It's funny the things that stick out your mind. The first memory of the voyage that comes to mind isn't my fellow men, our mission, or even the grand beauty of the sun setting over the ocean's horizon. No, instead it's the food.

The cook was horrible, a disgrace. Oddly enough, I never learned the man's name. In my mind, he was always Cook with the capital C. Now I wish I had taken the time to learn his name, but time has marched on, and it will not be reversed. Cook will always be Cook in my mind and nothing more.

Anyway, Cook was horrible, despite the name I had imposed upon him. He burned all meat beyond recognition. It resembled the cooled embers of a fire more than something edible. Yet, as I look back, most of the others were content. Eating Cook's charred meals as if they were from the finest banquet halls in Europe. Looking back, only I complained.

I suppose this is because I was not used to the hardships of life at sea. Compared to what lay ahead, Cook's meals were hardly a tribulation, but at the time they seemed unbearable. Mankind is adaptable if nothing else.

To return to the story, I finally registered my complaints with Cook. He simply shrugged and said he would make mine a little rarer than the others if it was that important. I thanked him and went on my way.

That night I learned the wrath of a Cook whose meals have been scorned. Instead of the customary blackened strips, mine was raw. As I cut into it, the meat bled profusely and I almost thought I heard it squeal in pain. Disgusted, I threw the plate overboard. I watched as it fell to the ocean with a small splash. I saw a small pool of red rise to the top, linger for a moment or two, and then fade into the vastness of the seas.

Cook continued to torment me with meals straight from the slaughtering block, but I dared not complain. I was afraid if I did, he would poison me next, for it was obvious Cook was a malicious man. Each night I took my meal without a single word and tossed the raw flesh from my plate over the ship's railing. I existed on bread and water and whatever other scraps I could scrounge. Indeed, if you take anything away from this tale, don't anger the cook of a ship.

I suppose I should mention about our mission now. Me rambling on about a petty dispute with a cook who's name I don't even know can't be that interesting for you. Unfortunately, our mission isn't much more interesting. We were sent to Jamaica. It was a English colony, but after a brief a war and with His Holiness, the Pope's decree, it was handed over to the Empire of Spain. Our mission was to take over the administration of the isle and my part specifically was to bring the good news of our Lord and Savior to the native population.

Did I mention I'm a priest? Or at least was one. I'm not sure what I am now. Anyway, yes I was a priest and that was our mission. Obviously we never completed it. I wonder if another mission has been sent. I have no idea how long I've been here. I've lost all concept of time here. To my mind a minute may be an hour or the reverse. True the sun still sets and rises as it always has, but I've never bothered to keep track. Why should I? Knowing the number of days I've been trapped on this prison would only add to my misery. Time is best left behind, in the civilized world.

Sometimes I wonder if another ship has been sent to fullfill the mission we could not. And if it was, did it suffer a similar fate? Is there some other tormented soul stranded on some God forsaken isle in the middle of ocean? Is he haunted as I am? There is an old saying that misery loves company, but such a thought does not ease my pain. No, I am almost certain there is no other place on this earth like this place. If there is, God help us all. Most likely the second mission succeeded where we failed, and we are nothing more than distant tragedy, a mystery for the ages.

The voyage was difficult, at least for me. I was the only priest aboard ship. I alone had the burden of bringing the Holy Word to heathen tribes of Jamaica. True there was a small collection of volunteers to assist me in the physical labor of spreading the gospel, but I was the only ordained man of God sent. There were to be others later. Others that would join me. Why is it we put such value on being the first? I considered it such an honor. Yet he who is first travels a lonely road, and does not our Lord say, “The last shall be first.”?

Being the only man of the church aboard put an instant barrier between me and the others. People respect a priest, but they are leery to become close to one, as if our faith was a disease that could be caught from the air around us. Add to this my already mentioned troubles with Cook, and you can see what I had to endure.

The crew took to calling me Padre, just as I named Cook I suppose. At the time, I thought it was a show of respect for my calling, but now I know otherwise. One of the minor advantages of my state is that by constantly reliving the past, I am able to gain a deeper understanding of the events that transpired. Of course even this brings great sorrow and little joy. Why is this earth so cruel? Looking back, remembering the slight undertone of their words, the subtle looks the crew shared when addressing me, even an almost imperceptible eye roll or two, it tells me that deep down these men mocked me. They mocked the pitiful Padre who couldn't even get a decent meal. They mocked frail Padre who took a week for his belly to grow accustomed to the rolling of the ocean. They mocked the simple Padre who believed his faith contained all the answers to all things. I missed it in the moment, but looking back it stands out like a great mountain in the midst of the plains.

Their mockery was not cruel, as I said I did not even notice it at the time, but that is precisely what makes it cruel. That they could scorn me, make a laughing stock of me, and I would go on naively thinking they respected my rank. And they knew I was oblivious, which only made their games sweeter.

I felt adrift during this time, an apt description considering I was aboard a vessel. Yet I was not adrift in an ocean of water. I was adrift in an ocean much more malicious than water ... though the water would prove its capacity for malice shortly. I was adrift amongst a sea of heartless men, souless it seemed. It was as if they were already consumed by the coming evil, and somehow I alone resisted its taint.

Damned, everyone one of them.

Looking back, I know now, I think I even knew then in deepest recesses of my mind, I was on a voyage of the damned, and the great ocean called the Atlantic was merely our River Styx. What awaited us was Hell.

[coz1]

Very nicely written, and a wonderful return piece. I like this character, though I'm not sure I should.

[Craig Ashley]

Coz: Whatever do you mean? Padre Reyes is such a cheerful fellow.

Thanks for the kind words.

[Craig Ashley]

To carry on the analogy of the Greeks, if the Atlantic was our Styx, then Captain was our Charon. In retrospect, I have named him after that infamous myth, but he had another name. I even knew it once, but somehow it escapes my memory now. It is only a trifling detail I suppose.

Charon, as we will call him now, was a naturally fit for my posthumous naming of him. A tall man, seemingly chiseled from stone. His skin was pale and looked cold to the touch, though I never tested that idea.

I seem to recall Captain Charon being a distinguished member of the Spanish Navy and having earned his way up through the ranks. All I know for sure is that he rarely spoke, but when he did his voice was like icy gravel. His outward appearance gave off the impression of supreme confidence, both in his own abilities and the good fortune of his ship. Yet, in retrospect, I think his confidence was but a set of armor he wore to mask the truth. He knew. Maybe he didn't know the horrific details of it all, but deep down in the recesses of his soul, Charon knew this voyage was destined by fate to end in tragedy.

Oh, how horrid such knowledge may be!

You think I jump to conclusions, don't you? That this story I tell is colored by the events that were to come. Perhaps you are right, or perhaps my words are truth. There were signs. Signs that death and destruction were chasing us, nipping at our heels. I haven't told you about the sharks, have I?

Have you ever seen a shark? I mean really seen one, up close? They have lifeless eyes. Dead eyes like a lump of coal, merciless, devoid of compassion, mercy, or even pity. Judging by their eyes, you wouldn't know they were alive ... until they bite. Then those dark killer's eyes roll white, and they drag their screaming victim under the red water. A shark is a horrible thing to bear witness to. It is nature's devil.

I can't say how long they were following us. I only know we noticed them after about three weeks at sea. And they would follow us forever. At first there was just one or two, and they only came around on occasion. But soon their numbers began to grow and they followed in our wake. It was like a pack of rabid dogs chasing down a tired old man. They circled us, like a flock of vultures over the dying. They were drawn to us by the scent, the scent of impending doom that enveloped our voyage.

At the time they were ominous, but also somehow beautiful. They have such majestic form, such sleek bodies. I would spend hours just watching them glide by the side of the ship, only that solitary fin above the water, like a warning to the world. The crew even took to naming a few of them. I think it was a way to cover up their own apprehension.

If it wasn't for the sharks, I may have considered jumping overboard, but knowing that their ravenous teeth awaited me below kept me where I was.

Captain Charon took to calling the sharks buzzards of the sea, it was more fitting than he could have ever known. Even the storm could not chase those buzzards away.

The storm. I suppose this was our first true trial. Cook, the mockery, the sharks they were all just precursors. The storm was the first act of our tragedy.

Sailors speak of the sea as if it were a living thing. They love it. They fear it. They respect it. The sea has wants. It has needs. And I believe it even hates. The sea and its lover the sky conspire together to create the storm, to punish those that cross them.

The storm came quickly, with little warning. I remember standing on deck, idly passing time watching the deadly fins of our friends below the water. Suddenly, the air was cold. I could feel a shiver enter my body, reach down and shake my very spine. The sky grew black as the grey clouds rolled in. Then the sea began to boil.

The water, water that had been so gentle, so picturesque, just moments ago, now grew angry. The water beat against the sides of the ship, unrelenting. With each crash against us, the waves grew taller. Then the skies opened, unleashing not rain, but a flood. There were not drops, but a deluge. It was if God and all his angels were pouring wet buckets of wrath upon our tiny vessel.

The ship rocked back and forth violently. In a matter of seconds, everyman that was exposed to the sky was drenched to the bone. I hardly noticed, I was still transfixed on the buzzards below.

They did not leave our side. The great storm did not cause them to run, as I would have assumed. Instead the beasts tightened their circle around us, closing in. Some how they knew what was to come.

It was a scene I cannot describe. Not because words fail me, but because my vision failed me. With the deluge from above and tidal waves from below, it was impossible to see anything past my nose. I heard the frantic shouts. Orders to the crew I suppose from Charon and his mates. What they hoped to accomplish was beyond me. I simply clung to the rail and prayed for deliverance. My prayers would not be answered.

I was deep in prayer when it happened. I heard it before I could see anything through the watery onslaught. Something was stumbling my way. It was a man, the second mate to be precise. Most of the crew just referred to him as Two. Two was stumbling, or perhaps more accurately tumbling my way. With the deck slick as grease and ship lurching uncontrollably, I'm surprised he was the only one to loose his footing as he did.

I remember it clearly. Each second is like a painting in my mind, perfectly captured by the master artist's hand. Two staggered forward, moving too fast. The ship leaned, as if it knew what it was doing, it leaned to our side, dumping Two over the rail like the day's trash. He was calling out as he fell towards me, but his calls turned to panicked screams as he plummeted to the deadly water below. I watched, stunned, as he fell. Mere seconds after he hit the unforgiving water, his screams turned into the shrieks. The sharks wasted little time. As a wave crashed over the rail that Two had just fell over, the deck was awash in crimson.

And after that moment, the skies sowed themselves shut and seas grew quiet. It was if they had claimed blood and were satisfied ... for the time being.

[Farquharson]

Too right, resistance is futile! I'm hooked... Wonderful story!

[redwolf]

Just got down to reading this AAR and I like it already. *hits subscribe*

[coz1]

The sharks were a very nice touch, especially with a shade of Quint added.

[Craig Ashley]

The sharks were a very nice touch, especially with a shade of Quint added.

Have you ever seen a shark? I mean really seen one, up close? They have lifeless eyes. Dead eyes like a lump of coal, merciless, devoid of compassion, mercy, or even pity. Judging by their eyes, you wouldn't know they were alive ... until they bite. Then those dark killer's eyes roll white, and they drag their screaming victim under the red water. A shark is a horrible thing to bear witness to. It is nature's devil.

I was wondering if anyone would catch the inspiration for that passage. I tried to make it close to the Jaws dialogue without blantantly ripping it off. Quint was such a great character.

[Stuyvesant]

Impressive. Spooky. Intriguing. I'll be checking in on this more often.

[Craig Ashley]

Farquharson: Thanks for the kind words.

*swinging a watch back and forth and speaking in a creepy voice* You are under my spell .... You will do my bidding ... Now go get me some cookies

Redwolf: Thanks for reading.

Suyvesant: Glad to have you checking in.

To all: I appreciate the friendly comments, especially since I haven't been around here in a long time. Truly you have given this wayward son of the AAR forums a grand welcoming home.

I'm curious how well this style is working for you all. I was afraid the rambling style and occassionally contradictory statements/mindset would distract the reader, but there is a purpose behind my literary madness. Any comments would be appreciated greatly, as this is my first attempt at pure horror, though certainly not my first dive into madness.

[Craig Ashley]

I was asked to perform a Mass for Two. It was brief and colorless, a morbid affair that was more about form than genuine mourning. Two had been our sacrafice to angry gods around us.

We carried on as if Two had never existed. The only thing to remind us of his fate were the sea-devils, the sharks. They followed us on our journey, like unholy escorts. They knew what had transpired was only an appetitizer for them. The true meal still lay ahead.

Despite the revulsion they inspired, I continued to watch them daily, fascinated by there raw power. My daily dumping of Cook's raw meals became an event. It was a sight to watch these beasts scramble for the small chunk of bloody meat. Sometimes the winner claimed his prize cleanly. Other times it was disputed and a brief skirmish would arise.

We sailed on and somehow I even began to feel better, as if Two's fate had answered the demands of dread. I was glad he was gone. “Better he than I,” I would mutter. Such evil thoughts! No the impending disaster was not gone. The taint of evil still lingered over us, only now I was being corrupted. I would pay for my corruption. I would come to envy Two's fate. The gift that we hold so precious, the gift of life, would become a curse, but I'm getting ahead of myself a bit.

At this moment in the voyage, it was the closest I would come to peace. Daily life was still a taxing proposition, one that must be slogged through, but I was not burdened with feelings of dread. Fool that I was.

I cannot recall how many days passed between the storm and the burning. It may have been a week, or it may have been a month. Time moves in strange ways at sea. Have you ever been at sea? Do you know the oddly distressing feeling of looking in all direction and seeing only empty blue? It's both majestic and terrifying, and time ... time can stand still. I don't know how much time passed between the storm and the burning.

The burning ... how can tell of it? I do not know if mere words can do it justice. How can words portray the pure terror? The absolute chaos? The consuming heat? How can I tell it? To tell it is to relive it, and I never wish to go there again. I wish to put the burning behind me once and forever. Yet even as I utter these words the terrible visions of the past burn themselves in my mind's eye. I can hear the screams? How can you sit there so quietly? Can't you hear the desperate cries? And the smell, the burning of wood and flesh.

Please allow me a moment.

I beg your forgiveness, but I was not expecting such vivid memories. Can you imagine the irony of witnessing the burning in the middle of a great ocean of water, and being unable to do anything about it? Sad, bitter irony.

I shall tell you of the burning now. Steel yourself for the horror of my tale is about to truly begin.

[J. Passepartout]

This is an excellent AAR, and I don't think anyone is put off by the style, so sail ahead.

[Meltdown1986]

I like the dark, depressing style of your writing. Reminds me a bit of Kafka, especially that slightly absurd, yet deeply troubling relationship between Padre and Cook.

[Farquharson]

I think you've captured the essence of horror beautifully - building suspense with constant hints about how awful the tale is going to be and how really no sane person would want to hear it at all. Which of course means that we all do! Keep it coming!